


A Boy's First Bestiary

by Wirrrn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-24 01:43:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16630499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wirrrn/pseuds/Wirrrn
Summary: A literal A-Z of monsters for Sam and Dean Winchester to face, with a veritable sh*tload of cameos, crossovers and in-jokes besides.





	A Boy's First Bestiary

**ANKOU**  
Dean Winchester stifled a high-pitched gasp as Sam's large, calloused hands worked the shaft. Dean reached down for more lube, but stopped with another, almost despairing groan as again and again the younger, larger man rammed forward with frantic -almost brutal- short chopping thrusts. Perspiration and a somewhat guilty look standing out on his face showed Dean that his brother was just... about.. there...  
...Sam jerked spasmodically in the driver's seat as yet again the gearstick in his hand made a loud, crunching sound of protest and the car's engine gurgled and died.  
In the back, Dean cursed and threw the near-empty spray can of WD-40 at his brother's head. "So much for your mechanical skills! Now as well as a fucked-up ignition and shocks, you've killed the transmission! "  
Sam just flipped him off and exited the car, stalking off in a huff.  
Dean sighed, and slipped in front, rummaging through the glove compartment for a list of nearby car-dealerships. He patted the dash as the car made a few, final moribund ticking sounds around him, hoping fervently this would be the only thing he loved that he'd watch die this year.

 **BARBEGAZI**  
He finally makes out Dean's form, nearly lost to this landscape of endless white. Sam holds the crowbar- old, solid iron, now caked with a deep, coppery tang that was not rust- above his shoulders, but can see no more of them coming; apparently, the death of their Alpha-Bitch has sent the rest of the Coven running back to the buried town with their tails between their legs (and shapeshifting back into human buttocks).  
Long calves moving him quickly forward despite the pounding snow, he soon kneels by his brother's body, mutters a relieved profanity at a strong pulse in the chill (but not as yet bitten, by frost or by foe) flesh of the throat, sees no wounds that will turn. He manages to half-carry, half-drag the older man back to their tent, zips their sleeping bags together, cuts Dean's clothes off and puts him into the bag, strips to the skin and slides in beside him. Holding Dean's cold nudity to his own flushed flesh, he shares all the warmth he can as he rubs and chafes life back into his brother. Dean's eyes finally open, owlishly, warm breath at last dissolves the powdery crystals adhering to his three-day beard growth. Sam smiles at the other man and pulls him into a tight hug as distant, mournful howls ring through the black ice of night.

 **CHIMERA**  
His eyes shift from the other man's face to the...thing. ..before him.  
Congealing rapidly and leaking various ichors he didn't want to even think about, he can identify at least three different species of animal all thrown together in a nightmarish blend of flesh and fluid. The smell alone makes him wish he hadn't left his exorcism kit in the trunk of the car now parked outside of the diner. He looked beseechingly back up at his brother.  
"-Don't hit me with the puppy-dog eyes, Sammy." Dean flashed his trademark smirk as he tucked into his blessedly mundane blueberry pancakes and maple syrup. "...You're the one who ordered the special."

 **DEMENTOR**  
Dean is out using his dubious charms on the assistant whom looked like he might have talked to them earlier, if the Head Librarian hadn't been standing right there, clearly not as impressed by Dean's ass encased in faux-leather (and faux-cop) figure-moulded state-trooper pants as her underling had been.  
So whilst his older brother liases with his local library about anything to do with vampires, Sam hits the bar, and is soon buying the first of several drinks for the very cute, grey-eyed youth who smiles and winks knowingly at him when a discretely sharpened length of wood falls not so discretely from Sam's pocket as he reaches for jingling change. Sam has not even begun to explain that the wooden object is a stake, not a "wand" as Grey-Eyes insists on calling it, when he finds himself back at the corner booth Grey-Eyes is sharing with a younger, slighter, bespectacled guy with an odd-but not unattractive scar on his forehead.  
Whatever they are drinking isn't alcohol and is yellow as butter, but it gets the job done.  
He's even more surprised when, a few drinks later, he finds himself, as if by magic, naked and sandwiched between a panting Grey-Eyes and his bookish-looking friend, who puts paid to his demure appearance by being a wizard between the sheets, pistoning into the two writhing men beneath him as if he'd been locked in the closet for half his life.  
Sam wakes some time later, extricates himself from the tangle of hot, sweaty limbs, clumps his clothes in a ball in front of his stomach and pads naked from the room, hoping the four hours that they've spent fucking themselves into a stupor would mean the two other men wouldn't wake and catch him leaving them. He takes a last look back at the bed- and sees the bookish youth awake and staring at him, eyes all calm, somewhat sad appraisal beneath that strange zig-zag mark on his forehead that had felt oddly hot beneath lips and tongue. Sam half-waves at the youth and leaves the room, trying not to feel like a total creep for leaving them like this, or it will suck all the happiness and joy he'd experienced right out of him, leave him cold and empty.  
Several times that year he tries to find them again, but there is no listing for a "Diggory" anywhere he can find, and he never exchanged any words at all with the bespectacled youth, whom he always thinks of, when he thinks of that night, as He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named.

 **EACH-UISGE**  
You watch as he slips off the last of his clothes, waits for a pause between the breakers and dives headlong into the fog-bound, slate ocean, holding your breath until his head bobs up above the surface again before you relax, marginally. You need to stop watching all those Shark Week specials on the Discovery Channel. The wild hair plastered salt-slick to his head actually suits him more now than it does when dry, and you make a mental note to tease him about growing dreadlocks later. One of these days, he's going to realize that he might be younger than you, but he's also about half a foot taller and twice as muscular and can kick your snarky ass any time he pleases, but until then it's open season.  
God knows why he wanted to take a dip in the sea off Nova Scotia, for Christ's Sake, but he's had some near misses of late and you're indulging his whims shamelessly. You didn't even blink when, after you pointed out that the two of you hadn't packed swimming gear, he just looked at you askance a moment and shucked right out of all his clothes and dove in. He poked his head up from the chill cobalt water and quirked an eyebrow at you, like some bizarre pornographic outtake from THE LITTLE MERMAID (other than the priest's knee), but you refused point blank to swim naked in any waters fed by Arctic currents.  
God knows how he's doing it, but a quick glimpse South shows he's not having any problem with shrinkage. Must be a Tall Guy thing. You smile as an unexpectedly large white charger gallops up and breaks over him, leaving long strands of kelp and other seaweeds threaded through his hair. He looks totally edible and any girl- or guy- you've seen the covert glances he sometimes gives other men in the various dingy backwater watering holes you find yourself drinking in- would be lucky to have him.  
He finally tires of trying to give himself a hypothermia -induced coronary and trots out from the waves, drying himself with his shirt before tossing it to one side and tugging his pants up over those long legs. You realize you're both hungry enough to eat a horse, and he suggests the B & B a street or two over. There's still a long strand of kelp stuck in his hair that he's clearly not aware of, a leathery, brown mane, and you are about to reach over and remove it, but then grin to yourself and leave it be.

 **FOMORIAN**  
Chasing a demon through the crowded throngs of the Saint Patrick's Day Parade was bizarre even for the Winchester boys and felt something akin being jammed into a can of sardines packed in Guinness.  
Of course, the demon in question just *had* to be slight and have a bright green head. By the time Sam and Dean had thrown Holy Water mixed with rock salt over their tenth angry reveler in a leprechaun costume, and consequently had partaken of their tenth fist fight, they were beginning to attract a little too much attention from their fellow paraders ("We've banned your sort from marchin' wi' us, ye pair o' sodding great nancies!") and retired to a nearby pub to nurse their bruised knuckles.  
Of course, Murphy of Murphy's Law fame being a countryman, the moment they sat down at the bar, they recognized their demon as the patron on the next bar stool over who was buying them each a drink. He actually turned out to be quite a nice fellow when he didn't have a face-full of thorns, had really done nothing more evil than bet on a few suspect greyhound races with some shady types (actual spectral shades apparently), and was now working his karma off "Helping the Helpless" in a detective agency down-town. The two of them left the bar with Guinness warming their stomachs, his number in their pockets and a promise to call him for some unspecified fun the next time they were in town- and a vow to hang up the phone immediately if the guy who answered sounded '"all soul-having and broody".

 **GORGON**  
Sometimes, late at night, Dean remembers what his father had asked him to do if Sam ever became irreversibly. ..tainted...by the forces they are hunting. If what made him special also marked him.  
He wonders how his father could ever have believed him capable, and if the loathing he feels when he thinks of the man at these moments is the same that drove Sam away from them.  
Sometimes, late at night, Dean wakes up with a start, pulled out of his dreams or nightmares by... something. He looks over to his brother's bed for reassurance, and sees only the sharp lines of a face, a bare torso, long limbs escaped from sweated sheets, turned alabaster by the moonlight- as cold and remote and beautiful as a serene mineral angel in a churchyard. Thoughts snake through his head. He pretends there is no blood between them, only flesh, that the love between them would catch fire into something darker and forbidden and wonderful. He knows he will not think of this again in the morning, that he will laugh and joke and bicker with Sammy, that he will defend his father's memory, until the next long night touched by the moon.  
He makes his heart a stone.

 **HAMRAMMR**  
Dust was inches thick on the floor of the old self-storage container. Whatever was stored here had been protected from it with thick, billowing sheets of black plastic, which turned the assortment of objects beneath them into weirdling shapeless lumps that could have been anything.  
The headlights of the cars passing by outside- ten feet and a universe away- periodically illuminate the two young men searching through the junk with strobing flashes of neon witch-fire. As they go about their work, drawing eldrich and impossibly angled symbols on the walls and floor with sticks of red-coloured chalk -most thickly around a large wooden trunk that they have unshrouded from its attendant plastic sheet- the headlights throw their shadows up on the wall behind them, where they continually merge and separate, flow and join, forming a dark, amorphous creature that now comes together, now pulls apart, but is always there, formless and black and hungry for the light.

 **IFRIT**  
Dean gave up smoking when he was Twenty. It took him nine weeks. He was not pleasant company. Hunger burned in his eyes whenever someone lit up. Sam still wishes Dean had taught him how to blow a smoke ring.

 **JENNY GREENTEETH**  
She squats besides the river in the pounding rain, watching the water. It has always fascinated her, this quicksilver element. She is heedless of the deluge soaking her clothing and skin, ruining the scrounged together edibles, the few non-broken belongings, sitting beside here in a rusting shopping trolley.  
Her clothing and skin are almost indistinguishable from each other- and, for that matter, from the river churning beneath her and the skies churning above. All are a faded, washed out grey, sodden with fluid and leached of colour. Only the woman's eyes- still grey, but sharp as surgical steel- and her smile- slimy, blackened and rotting painfully in her grey gums- stand out against the downpour, as she moves her shining eyes from the surface of the river to the two men sitting up front in a car some distance away.  
The deluge pouring down all around them slides thick and streaky over the windshield, obscuring and distorting the activity of the two young men within. Are they talking? Arguing? Kissing? Teasing flashes of white-pink flesh are visible through the intermittently sloughing rivulets soaking the car, but she can't be sure in what context. She tries to peer through the swimming glass for a few more moments, then loses interest and leaves them to their fighting, fraternizing or fucking.  
She shuffles away towards a cluster of thick weeds and wild grasses further down by the river, where a sodden, piss-smelling cardboard box is waiting, lined inside with mouldering blankets. She is nearly there when her left arm stabs sharp pain at her withered gray bosom. Her head goes light, and she tumbles down the bank into the now raging waters of the river. They take her eagerly, filling her greyness with their own. She turn her glittering eyes to find the car and bares her rotting teeth at the blurry moving figures within it in what could be rage or mirth, then the river sinks its own chill fangs into her and swallows her whole.

 **KUMIHO**  
He claimed to be an FBI Agent, and had shown Dean a reasonably genuine-looking badge, but then Dean had one of those in his back pocket that looked even more convincing.  
The man seemed legitimate enough, though and his name- Fox- was weird enough to be real. Initially Dean thought the spook had come to the waterfront warehouse for some drugs shipment or arms deal thing, so he was surprised to find they were both here for the same reason. Dean found it first- a simple trapdoor, clumsily concealed beneath a large crate of jigged squid. They shouldered the crate aside, opened the trapdoor- and immediately recoiled from the smell of blood, shit and fish that blasted at them from the dark hole in the floor leading to the ocean beneath.  
Dean found his prize hanging from the last rung of the rickety ladder that disappeared into the sea- three water-logged pages torn from a stolen copy of the Necronomicon, which Sammy was even now returning to the library at Miskatonic University (the Necronomicon was packed in a ash tree-wood box and wrapped in one of the Dead Sea Scrolls, both to stop the bleeding from the three torn-out pages and dissuade it from trying anything funny); Floating in the blackness below, Fox found the bloated, crab -damaged corpse of the man who had taken the Book in the first place.  
As they bent to haul the corpse of the conspirator, Kersh, from the foul-smelling chamber, they were dismayed to find out that Kersh had *read* the pages- something hideously anthropoid despite its nine hooked tentacles detached itself from Kersh's chest, where it had been suckling, and looped itself up the ladder towards them with deadly grace, like a gibbon slick with snot. Fox wasted no time in emptying his gun at the shining, gibbering slug-face, which had little discernible effect other than slowing the creature's progress marginally and causing mouths to open all along the reaching arms, which cursed at them in Aramaic, Greek and gutter French. Dean removed the pages and a lighter from his back pocket, tore them asunder and set fire to them- and the creature ululated its agony before dropping back to the blackness beneath with a resounding splash and a strong smell of chrysanthemums.  
Both men threw themselves onto the hatch and secured it, panting wildly as their eyes met- then they were kissing, rolling each other over the hardwood floor as they fumbled at each other's clothes.  
From a window high up on the wall above them, a dark figure watches for a moment. "-You always know how to pick them, Fox" he says, in a rasping whisper that sounded both amused and envious, then he slips one-handed from the windowsill and is gone.

 **LIDERC**  
-You watch your brother die in your dreams at least once a week.  
Sometimes your father fails to regain control over the sulphur-gazed demon that had hijacked his body- he crushes Dean's heart in the spiked box of his broken ribs ('Daddy...Please. ..") and drops the twitching red rags at your feet.  
Sometimes Dean turns to you, that contagious smirk on his face, and the creature that he has slain (species varies from dream to dream- last week it had been a were-hyena) flows back to its feet and tears his head off before you can shout a warning.  
The worst dreams are when Dean is lying nude on his back, eyes staring empty at the blackened sky, with a feral, panting *thing* sitting on his chest and feeding from his throat with terrible wet sounds, and you *know*, even before it raises the dripping meat of its head and you are looking at your own crazed face.  
You never scream when you wake from one of those dreams, your voice becomes a tiny, blackened egg at the back of your throat, but instead lie awake and listen to his blessed breathing next to you. If you need to use the bathroom during one of those nights, you never, ever lift your gaze to that of your reflection in the mirror, because you know one day you will look up and see his blood drooling down your chin to pool on the cold, tiled floor.

 **MANDRAKE**  
Sam is a screamer.  
Dean was unprepared at first. Sam was often so quiet and reserved during the day, and got laid so rarely anyway, despite his looks, that Dean was caught unawares by how vocal he was during sex. The first time he'd heard his brother's gutteral, grunting moans through the walls, he'd grabbed a broadsword from the night-stand (he wasn't crazy enough to sleep with a gun under his pillow) leaped naked from his own bed and kicked down the adjoining door between their two rooms- to find Sam howling in ecstasy and emptying himself into the sweat-slick ass of a young blond man, who took one look at Dean-filling the doorway -naked with a desperate look on his face and wielding a sword pointed at the bed- and fainted dead away.  
After Sammy had calmed down enough to stop throwing things and trying to invoke a spell that would give his older brother priapus for an entire month, Dean had unlocked the bathroom door and cautiously crept out.  
They assured the somewhat vegetative young man whom Sammy had been...entertaining, that they weren't crazed, Satanic Nudists looking for a virgin to sacrifice (the young man had looked at them rather pointedly at this, at which time both Winchesters realized they were still naked, and clarified that they weren't *Satanists* anyway). Whilst they dressed, they let the youth raid the room's mini-bar and saw him safely back on the bus to his hometown (some little backwater called Dante's Cove, they gathered from his nervous mutterings; also that from now on he'd just "never cheat on Toby again").  
Nowadays, in the event that Sammy got some action, Dean wore his Ipod to bed.

 **NAGA**  
Picking through the remains of a condemned school building that they'd heard on certain occult grapevines was a source of great, evil power, they don't find much of anything that isn't long destroyed. Whilst Sam throws a curious rock into the huge, blasted sinkhole in the midst of one blackened building and waits in vain to hear the rock hit bottom, Dean viciously kicked a fallen, rusting sign  
(SU.NY. ALE LI..ARY)  
and yelped in suprise as his balance threatened to abandon him. Instead of meeting the expected desert-type soil of the region, his foot slipped on some kind of leathery, mummified meat, scaly and fried ."Sheesh, and I thought the cafeteria food at our school was bad, Sammy." Dean muttered. "...At least we never got..." he sniffed "...Rattlesnake jerky."

 **KUCHISAKE-ONNA**  
"...Kirei da to omou?" (Do I look pretty?)  
Sam turned and looked the woman up and down. She was wearing Japanese-style wooden sandals -geta- that were laquered a lovely mahogany colour, and cherry-coloured tabi socks.  
Her full length kimono was cut conservatively, and a beautiful shade of very deep plum, embossed with darker still plum blossoms and offset by the sash-like Obi, which was the same colour as her tabi. Most of her features were obscured by very long,straight, blue-black hair that hung down over her face like a jet curtain. However, through the thick hair, he could see that her mouth appeared abnormally large- the bright red lips a razor slash in the pale face that seemed to extend from each corner of her mouth all the way back to her ears...  
Sam cocked his head. "Did you wipe your mouth, you idiot? You've smudged your lipstick."  
"-What? Aww, fuck me!"  
"..Not with your mouth the size of a crocodile's. "  
Dean flipped him off with a long, cherry-painted nail, then seized him by the arm and dragged him into the male toilets, reddening in embarrassment and tripping on his geta as several Japanese businessmen raised their glasses to him in toast and winked knowingly. He hauled Sam into the restrooms with him. Once inside, he hoisted himself up on the sink counter nearest a mirror and looked at his reflection, scowling at the wound-like lipstick stains. "...Shit!"  
Sam produced a small makeup kit. "Here, let me help you put on your face." Sam wiped the errant slash from Dean's cheeks with a damp cloth, re-whitened his face, and then dipped into the makeup kit again, producing a tube of colour. "That lipstick was a bit garish, dude", he fussed, applying a darker, rust shade of red to his older brother's grimace. "-this one matches your kimono a lot more nicely."  
Dean re-adjusted the long wig on his head, trying not to scratch an itch on his scalp underneath it. "...If you know so much about this, I still don't know why you shouldn't frock up, instead of me."  
Sam cocked an eyebrow, then drew him self up, conspiciously, to his full height. "Because our Oni is targeting Asian women adopted out to American families, not Giantesses?"  
Dean's eyes narrowed underneath their black cherry-coloured eyeshadow. "...Well, who's to say the thing's not into Amazons? Maybe it likes being dominated!"  
At Sam's look, he held up his long-nailed hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. Stupid growth spurts..." Dean made a mental note to paint Sam's toenails one night soon whilst he slept. Preferably when he had company.  
Sam finished blotting Dean's lipstick and put the makeup kit away. "There, you look gorgeous." He idly began fingering the folds of the long, plum kimono. "...But you wardrobe is very formal. I still think you should let me raise the hemline." Sam slid a hand up Dean's leg, resting it on his knee. "I could pin this up, so you could show more of your money-makers. What Oni worth its brimstone could resist?"  
Sam yelped as Dean slapped his hand away, pulled the hem back down "...Quit with the hentai-hands, Sammy; just because I'm beautiful, doesn't mean I'm a slut." 

**PENANNGALAN**  
"I'm here to see The Head."  
You look up at the young man, peering at him disdainfully over the rims of your half-moon spectacles and doing your best to look down on him, even though you have to crank your neck up to meet his eyes. But then, you excel at disdain. You purse your lips.  
"-The Head is not here. The Head has left for lunch."  
You attempt to go back to pretending to sort through the Science Department's budget, but you sense he's still standing there. You glance up, and he has apparently grown even taller in the few moments it has taken him to lean over your desk and flash a badge at you. You tighten your pink cardigan about your neck, reflexively. By the time you take your eyes from his face to the ID, he's already withdrawing it and putting it back in his pocket. You feel your lunch- a vinegar-soaked salad from that awful restaurant on the bay- threatening to repeat on you- a burning sensation tightens your viscera and slowly crawls towards your throat. You swallow, suddenly unsure.  
"Well-" he smiles, picking up the name plate from your desk and glancing at it briefly before replacing it. "-Dolores; perhaps I could talk to some of the students instead."  
You purse your lips again. This is most irregular. "-The Head left no instruction as to why our students would need to speak with The Police."  
"Ahhh, but Dolly, the Head has flown."  
He's actually *winking* at you now, which distracts you from admonishing him over the use and truncation of your first name until he's out of earshot, crossing to the corridor outside and talking with several of the student body passing by. You notice with distaste that one of them is the McPhee boy, who has manouvered himself well within the tall policeman's ("Call me Sammy") personal space and is muttering something about 'a friend of his being a cop too'. That would be Deputy Witter, you supposed, whom you'd always thought much better than his waste of skin younger brother (who'd been hauled into this office far too many times to do either of you any good), but word was that the elder Witter had been...seeing more of Jack McPhee than a person in his community standing should be. Disgraceful, the lot of them.  
You watch as McPhee looks at the picture the tall policeman produces and shows him  
(and what is it a picture *of*? Some kind of bird? But surely those dripping strands can't be wings?)  
and grimace as he takes the opportunity to brush his hip against the other man's, then simper a patently false-sounding giggle at something the taller man mutters. Honestly, why didn't he just pretend to faint in the policeman's arms so that he'd have to get mouth to mouth?  
(You realize what you're thinking and decide to pop in on Father Malone at confession two days early; you hope he hasn't been hitting the Altar Wine again)  
McPhee hears your tut of disgust  
('Hem Hem")  
catches you looking and turns as pink as your dress, making to pocket a small slip of paper he has been moving in the policeman's direction that you just know has his number on it, and not for Official Police Business, either. The taller man sees Jack's discomfort and turns to look at you. He tips another wink in your direction, takes Jack's phone number from the younger man's hand and places it, almost reverentially, in his breast pocket, before slowly and deliberately running a hand down McPhee's side and cupping one of his buttocks through his slacks, his eyes never leaving your own.  
You and McPhee shiver, both at the same time, and to your dismay, probably both for the same reason. Deep within your pink cardigan armour, your sour-candy heart flutters like some kind of airborne creature caught on a thicket of thorns.

 **QUESTING BEAST**  
They find themselves at the San Diego Zoo one morning- not Hunting, for a change, just enjoying the day. Sam- and the attendant group of school-children sitting with him at the round table on the elevated viewing platform over the enclosure- is delighting in the attention some new-born lion cubs are giving him; gathered directly beneath him, they are leaping to their hind legs and mewing for his attention- probably due to that thick mane of hair he sports.  
You turn away, hiding a smile, to the next exhibit... and the short-sword in your pocket slips free, cut straight through your jacket pocket and falls between the planks of the viewing platform into a cluster of boulders into the leopard enclosure below. You mutter a curse, but no-one has noticed, not even Sammy, and its not like you don't have plenty of replacements, so you let it go.  
A large, male leopard approaches the group of rocks and rubs its face against the pommel of the sword, marking the alien object as part of its territory. You fear for a brief moment that the big cat will slice itself open, but see that only the grip and pommel are protruding- the blade of the sword has slipped down a gap between two of the boulders and now the blade is stuck fast, the sword wedded tight with the stone.

 **ROKUROKUBI**  
Sam gasps, feeling himself getting close as he jerks himself off in the shower. Slipping his large hands through a tangled wet forest of curls to grasp his meaty cock, he knows he's about to come when, as always, his shaft swells and feels as though it's growing impossibly vast and he lolls his head on his suddenly boneless neck and howls as he spurts.

 **SHADHAVAR**  
Dean wakes up with a start, a noise- odd but not unpleasant- echoing half-remembered in his head. Sliding out of the bed now, trying not to wake his companion. The enormous, canopied expanse of silk and satin scarcely qualifies in his mind as a "Guest Bedroom", but they do things big in the White House, he guesses. He grins to himself as he looks back at the young man still sleeping in the bed, emo-bangs sweat-drenched and obscuring his sleep-softened face, nude body pale amongst the black bedsheets.  
They do things *very* big in the White House.  
His grin gains wattage. Having a friend-with- benefits whose brother is the President of the United States has benefits of its own, it would seem.  
Dean slips into his pants, then looks around for his shirt a moment before discovering it is part of the mobius band of bed-clothes and their-clothes wrapped around Peter's sleeping form. He doesn't have the heart to wake the younger man, so he forgoes the shirt. He could always try to pinch a tee from the Big Boss' suite later, he thinks. It'd give him a chance to see if Nathan's security team were as gung-ho as he kept saying they were over lunches when, Commander-In- Chief or no, both Dean and Peter would wish he'd scram so they could put their hands to better uses than dismantling polite little finger sandwiches.  
The noise again- trilling, ethereal and elusive, like a gust of wind blowing through a copse of hollow-limbed trees. His feet are moving towards it before the rest of him has even registered where it is coming from. He tries to feel alarmed about this but just can't- it's as though he's watching a movie about himself. No fear, no problem, no pressure.  
Except that there is pressure now, about his temples and forehead, a firm band of tightness just above his eyebrows that feels at first as though it's being drawn with a finger, then a stick of chalk, then a scalpel. Blood starts to trickle into his eyes, even as those eyes turn to the man in the corner of the room by the open window- the window through which the ethereal-sounding wind is whistling, is cut off as the window shuts itself behind the black-clad man, just as the door behind Dean closes and locks by itself. No, not by itself- by a slight cant of the head from the man in the corner, his face in shadow.  
Abruptly, the slicing pain in his skull is gone, as though a switch is turned off. The man is suddenly right in his face, peering at him closely. Dean still can't make out any features inside the shadow cast by the baseball cap, only the large and ornate, expensive watch on the man's wrist is visible, a Syl-  
"~Aren't you one one of us then? Nothing I can use?" He moves closer, twitching oddly, and Dean realises with a weird kind of horror that he's being *smelled*. "~No, not you...your brother; why do I always pick the wrong broth-" And there's a new sound now, not a whistling but a tea-kettle hiss as the man gasps  
("~Peter?")  
and flies backwards through the air away from Dean, flies- is flung- backwards at force through the window and out in a glittering explosion of glass and wood and Dean is free from the powerful, invisible grip, can turn and sees that indeed Peter is there, looking very pale and wrapped only in one of the black sheets from the bed, and a grave look on his face like he's concentrating, and Secret Service are suddenly all over and Peter's directing them to the shattered window although he's adamant they "Won't find him, he's teleported by now", and the look of intense concentration drops away from Peter's face and at the same time a few stray shards of window glass and frame still suspended in the air fall to the carpet and Dean's hands are on the long but shallow cut at his forehead and Peter's hands and then lips are on Dean and the sheet is on them both now and he can breath again and feel again and they're fine, they're okay and he won't even admonish Peter for being a hero, he's just glad that he's whole and here and in his arms.

 **TSUCHIGUMO**  
Eight haired legs entwine  
Xander, Graham, Sam and Dean  
Sex binds them like silk

 **UMIZATO**  
A certain Canadian military base reaches their ears, talked about only in whispers. They're told the deserted base is both hundreds of feet underwater and, according to locals, the haunting ground of a fiery avian spirit that sometimes appeared as a lovely woman with red hair and sad eyes which lured young men-especially, for some reason, young men with glasses- into the water with her and boiled them alive. The flooding and the bird-woman are somehow connected, they're told.  
Three days in and they'd seen not a sign of her, but that afternoon Sam found a beautiful, confused young man wading up to his calves in the shallows, his eyes screwed tightly shut and wearing tattered black leathers that may have once been a uniform. The young man remembers his name -Scott- but doesn't seem to recall how he got there, or even where "there" was- he refuses point blank to open his eyes and look around him, won't even turn his head in the direction of Sam or Dean's voices.  
They share their food and their tent with him, and he is friendly, but every time a bird cries he flinches visibly and puts two fingers of his right hand just behind an ear, in what Dean supposed was a nervous gesture. Sam watches him as he sleeps and, though his big, gentle hands stroking Scott's brow and prominent cheeks soothes the tightening of the other man's face, Scott won't relax his clenched eyelids even in slumber.  
When the Winchester boys awake in the morning Scott has gone, and though there are claw marks- three long sharp slashes from the top of the tent to the bottom- Scott's sleeping bag is not damaged. Indeed, the bag is unzipped, as though he heard the tent being torn open by something and went outside to meet it, unafraid of the beast behind the claws.

 **VEGETABLE LAMB**  
New Orleans finds them tracking down several Will O' The Wisp brought from the swamps into the city by Katrina and causing tourists to turn up lost, mad and skinned, not necessarily in that order. They stop at a small club called "The Yew", attracted by the the old recipe Wormwood-inclusive Absinthe and the whispers of an awesome in-house band that is, somewhat oddly, not very often in-house. Tonight finds the band "In", much to the brothers' delight- Lost Souls? are everything they are rumoured to be.  
Dean immediately shepherds the guitarist over to a corner of the bar to buy him an absinthe and ask if there'd been any strange lights in the sky ("Fluorescent, but not as bright as this" he says, pointing to the drink he is pouring through a sugared spoon).  
Sam, meanwhile, moves past a trio of men discussing the best way to stew a possum so that the young in her pouch add flavour to the stock and warms his hands by the fire, staring out a window at what little of the scenery he can see behind a living filter of Kudzu vine that is claiming the view- and the glass- for its own.  
A pale shade in his peripheral vision resolves into the Lost Souls? singer, who smiles coyly at Sam's praise of his vocals- teeth nearly as white as his hair and the flesh of his face- and happily gives Sam a clearly self-released CD for the two Winchester boys, at no charge, which Sam immediately plans putting to high-rotation on their car's stereo as soon as he can "accidentally" dispose of Dean's Polyphonic Spree albums, preferably buried deep on Holy Ground.  
Mid-penstroke and the Singer suddenly shudders, the smile cracks and falls from his face to the floor, a long, albino spider of a hand crawls to Sam's shoulder and rests on his cheek. "~Golden-Eyes" , he mutters, and Sam knows he doesn't mean James Bond. "~You're looking for him. You must stop soon. Or you''ll find him." A tip of the chin at the Kudzu in the window behind them, and the gentle voice is suddenly three octaves deeper and has his father's inflections. "~The seed don't fall far from the tree, Sammy." He falls silent, literally, Sam catching the suddenly limp man before he hurts himself on anything, noting that Dean and the guitarist-who has just vaulted over the back of the chair with the singer's name torn from his lips- are coming to help.  
On the road in Lost Souls? van later that night, putting as many miles as they can between them and Missing Mile, Steve is casting anxious looks at Ghost's phantom pallor and Ghost himself is staring at Sam and Dean with a mixture of apprehension, awe and pity. All four men later muse privately that wood from the Yew is much over-rated as a tool for warding off evil.

 **WOODWOSE**  
"So you have absolutely no idea whether this 'Pleasantville Werewolf' exists or not, Mr..Dingle?"

"~Well, I wouldn't say that, neither would we, my friend Tommy and I that is, I mean would you say we had no idea, Tommy? We've seen it; I mean, not to speak to or to socialize with or anything, we're totally not covering up for him no sir hahaha! Oh, not that I'm suggesting that lycanthropes couldn't be perfectly acceptable dinner guests so long as you had plenty of chicken on hand and the proper restraints that didn't clash too badly with the tablecloth and made sure the cutlery wasn't silverware but I mean we've seen it whilst we've been making our rounds and protecting the town from evil, that's what we do you know, kind of like amateur Ghost Busters only without the proton guns and the ghosts-we seem to attract big bads with more teeth and less ectoplasm-and without the the two American team-members of course; Tommy and I are Out and Proud Canadians, Out and Proud about several other things too, we even got them to print a picture of us kissing in our Year-Book, although that was a battle that was much harder than any of our skirmishes with the various nocturnal nasties we've faced off in this little hamlet we call home and It's great that you and your brother hunt monsters too we should all totally team up for a little supernatural soiree one of these nights and compare birthmarks NOTES! I meant notes, not birthmarks, not that you guys aren't totally edible, your skins look nice and unblemished. ..er, edible in a complimentary way, not in a scary serial killer way or anything and we'd be great together fighting the good fight, just as long as we weren't hunting the Pleasantville Werewolf because I hear he's a great guy just a little hairier than most and who are we to judge I mean we've all had bad hair days, right?"

".......What? "

 **XIPE TOTEC**  
Sam tried to grew a beard once, just for something different to do whilst on the road. The scraggly black stubble survived days of Dean's mockery, complaints of beard burn and threats of shaving his younger brother whilst he slept, but Sam held out for almost a week. He sacrificed it not long thereafter, when the snaggled claws of a cannibalistic child snicked into it, found a grip and almost pulled the flesh right off his head like a mask. The cheap motel razor took the beard off, eventually, but also caught frequently and took long, thin strips of his skin with it, and he cursed and opened the small bathroom window and flung the foamy, red-flecked bowl of water out into the pre-dawn like an offering to the newly rising, bloody sun.

 **YAMIBITO**  
-The ear-splitting klaxon howl of the siren rips the air apart around Dean again, and he claps the injured hand to his ear in agony, from the noise rather than the sickle-slashed fingers. The other hand tightens his hold on Sammy, whom is clutching at his own ears and grimacing in pain. Eventually the amplified shriek peters out again- until next time- and they fumble forward in the unnatural, red-tinged darkness, wary for scuttling shuffle-hops from the undergrowth that would signify another attack from the insectile entities that used to be the villagers.  
Or worse, the ones controlling them.  
Dean sees a quicksilver shining movement at ground level- a stream- and drops to his knees gratefully, cupping a handful of water to his face, far too thirsty to be repulsed any more by the bizarre crimson colour. A flurry of movement and Sam slaps his hand away from his mouth, the blood-coloured liquid flung out into the night and Dean left now with *two* sharply stinging hands.  
"It's the water, Dean; that's what's...turning. ..the townsfolk; whatever it is, it's in the water."  
So the weird mental connection- "sight-jacking", that weird nun had called it- to this place that Sam exhibited earlier is still in effect. He must have read the thoughts of one of the creatures that had used this stream. Dean nods, rising to his feet and taking his brother's hand- and another one is on them, one of the powerful lead creatures that still looks mostly human, its fish-belly white face twisted in hatred as it gibbers and curses at them beneath the long black robes. It raises a rusty bailing hook, a leer of loathing and bloodlust further contorting its alabaster features- and Sam steps calmly in between the creature and his brother, and, turning on his powerful magnesium flashlight, shines it full in the pallid thing's face.  
Just like before, the effect is immediate and dramatic- the thing- from the cut of the clothes it may have once been a woman- screams in dreadful pain as the light hits its flesh, the pale tissue actually *smouldering* as it shrieks and tries to cover its exposed skin with its dense, jet robes.  
Sam kicks its legs out from beneath it and sits on its chest, shining the torch at the smoking face until there *is* no more face, and the thing's violent thrashing is reduced to the occasional reptilian twitching of dead nerve endings. Dean moves to stand by his brother's side, and they look down at the burned remants for a moment before continuing to walk down the path. Dean's own flashlight is beginning to falter, and they need to find another store and get some more batteries quickly.  
Six more hours until dawn.

 **ZOMBIE**  
Just before the knife hit home, Sam sees it and gasps, but is too late to shout a warning. The man on the platform catches the blade with the meat of his throat and collapses to his knees with a surprised grunt and a huge gout of blood. He falls dangerously close to the tracks, but then getting hit by a train is the last of his problems.  
Sam rushes over and pulls the man to him, pulling the knife  
(a Kris knife, Sam thinks, absently- more of a dagger really- not good for throwing)  
from the man's neck and feeling for an absent pulse in a neck that is coming apart in his hands.  
Then the flesh of the throat knits back together, the blood all over Sam's hands and arms flows down over him and back into the throat of the man whom even now regains colour to his cheeks, snaps his eyes open and focuses them on Sam.  
A broad grin slashes open his face now and suits him much more than the other one had.  
"...Captain Jack Harkness" says the man in Sam's lap. "...And who, pray tell, are you?"

\- - - - end - - - -

**Author's Note:**

> This came about after a dear friend challenged me to a] do a SUPERNATURAL fic with Sam and Dean which did *not* involve Wincest and b] write a bestiary of monsters in which the monsters themselves do not appear, but are only alluded to. I've included the names of the monster as the title of each vignette, so you can (and indeed, are strongly urged to, as monster mythologies from around the world are great fun) look them up.
> 
> Me being me, I also included a *lot* of crossover cameos of men from other TV shows, movies, videogames etc for the guys to bang. When you're done playing "Spot the monster" try and play "Spot the cameo". No prizes though!
> 
> btw- I did actually cheat and include *one* vignette where the monster talked about in the title shows up in the story. See if you can spot it!
> 
> btw again- I've always found Sam hotter than Dean. That shows in this fic, I reckon.
> 
> Note: As always, this goes out to Colton Haynes. He knows why!


End file.
